Resisting Danger
by eohippus
Summary: What happened to Sherlock when he left the morgue after Irene was found dead? He met Raz. Was it a really a danger night after all?


**I absolutely love the scene where Mycroft and Sherlock talk in the morgue and the whole "danger night" business. This is the result of my musings on where Sherlock went and what happened.**

**I guess, I needed to get away from the melancholic turns of my Post-Reichenbach-story, "The Plan".  
**

**If you´d like to know Mycroft´s POV, go and read "Permanent" by Jeannie-McKay. It´s worth being read!**

**Warning for the sensitive: Mentioning of drugs.  
**

* * *

**Resisting Danger**

* * *

„Merry Christmas," Sherlock says to his brother in way of a goodbye, already walking out of the morgue. He lets the ash of the low-tar cigarette drop on the floor as he strides on in long, confident steps, not looking back, his coat flapping as elegantly as ever.

„And a happy new year," Mycroft replies to his brother´s back. The crinkles on the elder Holmes´ forehead deepen as he watches Sherlock leave. He takes in the slight hunch in his brother´s shoulders and the way the cigarette dangles from his fingers, tiniest signs that his composure is slipping. With a sigh, he retrieves his mobile as soon as Sherlock is out of earshot, dialing John´s number. The doctor picks up after the first ring. Clearly he has been worried by Sherlock´s prolonged absence.

"John," Mycroft says. "You have to stay with him tonight. Yes, it is necessary. No, I´m not. But then, I never am."

But in his heart he knows. This is going to be a danger night.

* * *

Sherlock steps out into the heavy snowfall, the cigarette still burning. He feels numb, his continually working mind is blank. He has seen many bodies, dead by unexplained circumstances, murdered in all possible ways. Professionally, he shouldn´t make a difference between the unknown victim´s deaths and Irene´s. But an odd feeling sits in his heart and he can´t quite fathom why.

Irene Adler was more than an intriguing puzzle, she was beautiful and interesting. And in intellect, she was his equal. It is a mystery how a living, thriving spirit like hers could have been shattered so suddenly and irreparably. The sight of her on the slab in the morgue has shaken him. It is crystal clear that she must have made many enemies in her career as dominatrix, hence her deliberate attempt to get her phone back. One of those enemies has delivered his last blow to her, and Sherlock can only speculate on his identity.

He refuses to consider the probability of Moriarty being involved, but he does nevertheless and he shivers, fear of how much of his moves are watched and choreographed by the consulting criminal gripping at him with icy claws.

He stops outside of the main entrance to Bart´s, deeply inhaling the frosty winter air as if it could erase the images of the deranged criminal mastermind and Irene from his memory. The cold actually hurts and he is grateful that he can feel at least something. His mind, though, is running in loops, repeating useless speculations about Irene´s death. The idle question of why he is so affected by it governs his train of thought, and he can´t divide the useful facts from what he is feeling. Even his body is giving in to sentiment. His hand starts to shake as soon as he raises the cigarette to his lips for a last pull. Finished, he throws the butt away, digs his fists deep into the pockets of his coat and starts walking.

Walking always calms him down, and so he steps away from the hospital, with no idea where he is heading, only being adamant that he will not return home soon. He wasn´t too keen on celebrating Christmas with his friends anyway. It was John´s idea to get together and have some fun, and he insisted when Sherlock told him that he had spent the past six Christmases on his own, in solitude.

The evening might have turned out bright and cheery for everyone, but by now the party will either be finished anyway. Most certainly, he will be confronted with Lestrade´s and John´s questions as soon as he gets back to Baker Street. And he simply doesn´t want to explain to them why he has been at the Morgue and what he found there, and, moreover, loathes to disturb John´s peace of mind with his suspicions concerning Moriarty.

Thus, he keeps on walking. Snowflakes cover his tracks as soon as he leaves traces on the pavement, but he has no eyes for the beauty of his beloved hometown on that magical Christmas night. Deep in thought, he keeps on walking, mechanically, at a deliberate, fast pace, still not feeling any pain except the frost biting his cheeks and nose.

Walking to the less pleasurable parts of London takes quite some time. He doesn´t mind. Walking is far easier today than any other day of the year, since it is quiet, and he rarely meets a fellow citizen in the deserted streets. Even the number of cars is far smaller than usual, as everybody stays with family or friends this evening or has gone away on holiday.

Streets narrow into alleyways and alleyways into bypasses, when finally he reaches train tracks and the old underground depot he knows so well, one of the main residing spaces of his homeless network. There is a small hollow in one of the walls where once a side entrance led to a workshop. He stops there to huddle down in one of its corners, his coat tightly drawn around his lean features, its collar turned up to shield his face from the frost.

Hidden in the shadows, he watches the flashing lights from the underground signals, and feels the ground vibrate with the frequent passing of carriages in the distance. Where he sits he is safe, as no trains are running on the abandoned tracks, and hardly ever anyone passes the old building. Only the cold is creeping in steadily, but he´s had worse and he doesn´t mind as long as being cold means that he still feels anything at all.

Several minutes pass by, the sounds of the city dimly distinguishable in the background, a constant humming telling of the thriving life in the Capital, dimmed and softened by the falling snow.

"Hi mate," a familiar voice startles him.

He looks up, his eyes focusing on a youth´s face. Mid-height, bald head, baggy clothes, a bag full of aerosols - Raz, one of the homeless network.

Sherlock smiles. "What happened to Christmas?" he asks.

Raz shrugs and sits down beside him. "Not my piece of cake, I guess," he says. "Never was." His gaze lingers on Sherlock´s face, and the detective can sense the younger man´s curiosity. "You´re on a case?" he wants to know.

"In a way, yes," Sherlock replies. "Have a fag?"

Raz fumbles in his pockets, pulls out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter and hands it to Sherlock. He frowns as he notices that the detective´s hands are not steady. "You´re in trouble?" he asks.

Sherlock contemplates the cigarette between his fingers. "Not actually. But I could use something to calm me down," he adds with a wry half-smile.

Raz doesn´t smile back. "No joking mate. I know you´re no longer on the street, you´re clean."

"Sometimes I wonder," Sherlock replies, breathing out the smoke. Definitely not low-tar, Mycroft, he comments silently and with grim humour.

"Well, you´re famous, aren´t you? Been to Buckingham Palace and all. Conversing with the highest circles." Raz grins. "Wearing a sheet instead of a boring black suit, I heard."

Sherlock chuckles. The homeless network is so much more efficient at spreading rumors than the rest of the city. "Do you think that makes me a different person, working for the upper classes?"

Raz shrugs. "Dunno," he says. "Always thought you are special. You would not come here if you weren´t."

This statement, coming from one of his homeless friends, comes very close to John´s "amazing". Sherlock smiles. "Probably I wouldn't," he acknowledges. He throws the cigarette away and crosses his arms, huddling deeper into his coat.

Raz, who has eyed him closely, shakes his head. "Something´s wrong, I can tell," he says. "You´d never be here if there wasn´t."

"This woman I researched for my newest case. She is dead," Sherlock hears himself saying. He didn´t really have the intention of telling a stranger, but somehow it is easier telling Raz than telling John. And he needs to sort out the nagging thoughts which are still numbing his brain.

Raz´ face lightens. "Fancy her?" he asks.

"I don't know. She… was intriguing," Sherlock answers. He spots a glint of understanding in Raz´eyes.

"Dead, hm. Know the feeling. Friend of mine died some years ago. Car accident. She was... the most lovely person I´ve ever met."

The young man hesitates, then fishes into his pocket, retrieving a small plastic bag. "I should probably not do this, but, you know. If you still need it, you can take it. Got it from a friend. Your usual stuff," he adds as he notices the look of confusion on Sherlock´s face changing into one of want.

Raz isn´t doing drugs, the detective knows. But then again, this is probably his way of returning a favor, of thanking him. He knows he can´t resist the temptation to take the plastic bag, not today, but this doesn´t mean he will be using. At least this is what he tells himself as he nods his approval and stretches out his hand.

"Thank you," he presses out hoarsely, his fingers already tingling as if the substance was a living creature, radiating warmth.

"See you," Raz answers curtly and leaves, disappearing in the shadows. The cold has finally crept through all layers of Sherlock´s clothing, and he hauls himself up and starts walking briskly towards one of the main streets, leaving the workshop and memories of his bleaker days behind.

* * *

The cab ride home is long enough to let him warm up again, and the cabbie complies goodheartedly to his request to turn up the heating. As usual, he has been able to hail a taxi within ten minutes, which is astonishingly short for a Christmas evening. The cabbie tells him that he will be his last passenger, and Sherlock leaves several crisp notes in his hands without taking the change.

As he dashes up to the entrance of 221 Baker Street, he fingers the plastic bag for the hundredth time, caressing its content thoughtfully, contemplating what he will do with Raz´present. Rationally, there is no reason he should be going back to taking cocaine again, but then again his mind doesn´t provide a solution for the enigma of Irene Adler´s death and the feelings which have confused him all evening. With the help of the drug, it would be so easy to blend out his irritation, to leave all questions behind, to simply relax and forget...

He is so immersed in his thoughts that he doesn´t hear the door to Mrs. Hudson´s flat open when he reaches the bottom of the stairs to 221 B.

"Sherlock," his landlady calls him softly, startling him. "You are back, dear. You´ve been gone ages. We were worried. It´s nearly two. Would you like a tea, love?"

Rather not. He wants to be back in his room and alone as soon as possible, as there is still the question of whether to use the drug. Or perhaps there is no question to that at all. But he knows better than to refuse Martha Hudson´s offers and obediently follows her into her kitchen.

She pours him a generous mug. "Why don´t you sit down, boy. You look frozen," she says. Sherlock complies to her motherly order, and wraps his fingers around his mug, warming them. She sits down herself, and he can feel her gaze linger on him. "You´re doing so well, you know," she finally says. "Whatever bothers you, there´s certainly a better way to deal with it than taking drugs."

He cocks his head, his nose wrinkling in irritation. "Mycroft?" he asks.

She pats his hand. "Of course Mycroft. Made us search the usual places to make sure you won´t harm yourself. Ordered John to stay and wait for you. The poor boy has probably already fallen asleep by now, he was really tired. Can you even imagine how worried we all were?"

Strange thing is, he can. His relapse following the events at the pool has upset John to the point of agreeing with Mycroft to watch over him, annoyingly without taking bribes. And Mycroft has started a new and even more effective 'evidence hunt', as Sherlock has secretly labeled his brother´s attempts to collect as much information as possible about his daily whereabouts.

It´s an easy decision, suddenly, but he needs to act quickly. "You are right, I shouldn´t worry you," he says and offers her the plastic bag. "Please dispose of this. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson. See you tomorrow." With this, he gets up in one stride and leaves the flat.

Seventeen steps later he opens the door to 221B. A small reading lamp throws its light on a snoring John Watson who wakes with a start at the sound of his flatmate´s footsteps. Sherlock finds himself scrutinized thoroughly for the fourth time tonight. He is knackered and wishes nothing more than to go to bed, but nevertheless he hesitates in the doorway. John´s gaze lingers a bit longer than usual on his eyes, checking his pupils – always the doctor, Sherlock thinks – before he speaks, befuddled: "Are you okay?"

"Of course," Sherlock answers, searching the room for signs of his landlady´s and flatmate´s collective search. They were thorough, he observes, not only checking the usual places but probable nooks and crannies, too. "I hope you didn´t disturb my sock index," he finally tells John off, and John only stares blankly at him in reply, a glint of comprehension on what his genius friend might have been up to dawning in his sleepy eyes.

Probably rubbing off of me, Sherlock thinks, smiling to himself. "Goodnight John," he says and finally heads for his room.

* * *

In the morning, Mrs. Hudson greets him with her sweetest smile, patting his shoulder. Even though he is itching to play his violin to soothe his nerves, he manages successfully to refrain from it until John finally wakes at half past ten.

When Mycroft calls, he texts him back. "You were wrong, brother. Caring can definitely be an advantage."


End file.
